


Absolute Ground Zero

by regsregis



Series: Siren Jack [1]
Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: AI Jack, Abuse, Angst, Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Considered Suicide, Dark Rhys, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Humiliation, M/M, Self Harm, Siren Jack, Tortures, choo choo all aboard the absolute fuck up train, dare i say - slow burn, forced body modifications, incorrect siren science, it has been brought to my attention that prolly this should also be tagged as deadnaming, just in case, more characters added as the story unfolds, post episode 4 bad ending, there's going to be a lot of death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2019-03-20
Packaged: 2019-07-16 03:18:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16077242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/regsregis/pseuds/regsregis
Summary: ladies, gentlemen and other creatures of the night, here we finally are, a year later i bring you the long awaited and even longer promised siren jack au. it will keep getting progressively more and more spicy so keep an eye out for tags, because someone is bound to lose theirs





	1. future comes in a body bag

There’s nothing, no touch, no sound, no taste and nothing to look at beside total, complete darkness. He’s not entirely sure his eyes are even open.

There is no time and the only indicator that he’s not dead is the burning sensation spreading through his veins and hacking away at his grip on reality.

He’s floating, that much is clear, but there are no shifts in the air, no changes to the temperature or pressure. Water then. Perhaps. Dense enough to support his weight. It feels like he has all the time in the world to ponder this dilemma.

He can’t move his limbs, can’t breathe, not on his own at least, chest slowly rising and falling with air forcefully pumped into him. Can’t stop breathing either. Can’t scream no matter how hard he tries. Or maybe he  _ is _ screaming and he just can’t hear it. Regardless, something has been fed through his parted lips and slipped down his throat, an uncomfortable weight reaching to his stomach.

Feeding tubes. 

It takes him… a few hours? (A day?) A year? It’s hard to gauge with his consciousness constantly fading in and out, to even piece that much together, the fire inside of his body the only solid thing he can cling to.

What however matters, is that he’s alive, as much as you can call this state of painful nothingness being alive. The only vivid memory is the all-consuming rage at watching plans -  carefully carved from piles of bodies and betrayal - crumble and fall into a sea of lava.

(Has he been captured?) Vault hunters? Other enemies? He knows he doesn’t lack those at the very least.

 

And then comes the moment his only grip on reality is taken away. The pain stops, the residual sting slowly subsiding until there really is nothing to latch onto. 

It’s just Jack.  _ Handsome Jack goddamnit,  _ he wants to scream, and this persistent nothingness as his only companion.

 

And  _ then _ it gets worse, Jack didn’t think it could but yeah, it does. At first he attributes this strange hunger to a lack of anything solid in his stomach. But that’s not it, he craves and yearns for the pain to tint his blood neon violet again.

 

No. Not pain. He’s not stupid, he has never been the one to seek pain, taking far more pleasure in dishing it out rather than receiving. 

 

Whatever it was that has been steadily dripping into his veins and eating away at his flesh like corrosive acid, is what he needs. A drug perhaps he concludes, an hour or a minute later.

 

The pure need ignites something more in him, anger, and anger is good because anything else that’s not this crippling, bone-numbing lethargy gives him a sense of reality, as fragile as it is.

 

It grows, a high tide inevitably creeping closer, not pulled by Elpis’ gravitation but by a force much stronger and devastating. Handsome Jack’s rage. Until he can’t take it anymore and it spills over, crashing through his weakened body in a burst, coiling and twisting under his skin till it reaches his shoulder blades, something clawing its way outside, tearing the flesh and skin alike.

 

For one, brilliant second he can see once again, an unearthly glow combusting from somewhere behind him, and while he can’t exactly make out the shape of it, it’s enough to illuminate his immediate surroundings.

 

A web of half-transparent tubes, tangled all around him and disappearing inside of his body, latched to every possible point of entry and spots arteries lay closest to the surface. 

IVs. 

That’s how they must have been pumping him full of this mysterious drug. Heat claws its way through that space between skin and flesh, bright and shining in a tangled mess through the near sheer outer layer.

 

Water solution, yeah, now he’s sure of it, dimmed light seeping through the ripples and bouncing back against the curved walls of his… container? Tank? Whatever it is, is large, dwarfing Jack’s frame and looming from all angles. 

 

One last glance around, through the burn and ache, Jack going cross eyed to examine the apparatus strapped to his face, thicker tubes protruding from around his mouth and a similar set curled between his legs. He’s skewered alright. Something that feels like a dry chuckle bubbles in his chest, perhaps a subconscious reaction to his fucked up situation.

 

The light disappears, leaving a certain kind of itch in its wake and he’s back to being alone and in the dark. Literally and figuratively. 

 

That outburst burned through whatever little strength remained in his body and all that’s left is this strange kind of hunger and longing until he no longer can be bothered to even feel that much. Consciousness swept under this numbing lack of any stimuli, Jack starts disappearing once again, drowning in nothingness and weakness. Half awake but not really.

 

-II-

 

When bright, sterile light pours into his prison Jack can’t even feel an ounce of interest, weakly flailing when he’s grabbed and dragged outside. 

The first thing he feels is cold metal. Hard, harsh and from now on, that’s the only thing he keeps experiencing. Something to re-center his focus nonetheless, an, as welcomed as it is unwelcomed, change from the itching lack of sensations.

Repurposed Loader Bots, his passive brain registers, laying his limp body down on a metal slab more suited for a morgue than anywhere else. Wherever  _ here _ is.

A flash of yellow here and there confirms that he still is somewhere Hyperion-owned. Maybe that’s good but Jack doesn’t know and doesn’t care anymore.

 

They clink bumping into one another, heavy footsteps shuffling around him, his so far sound deprived ears and brain struggling to sort out the loud noises.

 

The tubes are slowly pulled out of his body, detached with a hiss and sliding  _ out _ of him with a sickening squelch. A droplet running down the side of his face tethers for a few precarious moments at the edge of his lips before eventually falling inside. He’s too exhausted and lethargic to even chase it with his tongue but it leaves a salty residue in its wake.

 

It’s hard to keep his eyes open but it’s even harder to keep them closed, not when he finally has something to train his sight on, stinging bright light bringing out a few tears pooling in the corners. That is, until a blurred shadow obscures his vision once again. A few moments and lethargic blinks are needed to refocus, and once it happens, Jack kinda wishes it didn’t. A man, unfamiliar if still dressed into something that virtually screams Hyperion, looms over him. 

Brown and blue eyes, the uncommon mix hardly raising any questions from his tired mind but a concerned expression and narrowed eyebrows, speak of safety. So perhaps not his enemies. Perhaps he has been saved by his dutiful little worker bees and it’s only a matter of time until he’ll be back on his feet and chasing… whatever it was that he was after before the absence of reality took over. 

He has nice hair, the thought making Jack worry about the bad shape of his own hairstyle.

“W-who…” it’s nice to have a voice again, even though it's scratched raw and annoyingly week.

“Who am I?” unlike him, the stranger speaks in a low, hushed voice, soft and with a nearly soothing rasp. It’s so, so much better than the harsh sounds the Bots made. So much better than the deafening silence too although Jack struggles to make sense of the words.

 

The blue of his iris swirls and shifts to yellow, full lips spreading in a toothy grin which somehow feels familiar if completely out of place.

 

“I’m you… but better.” Something cold sinks into his stomach.

 

Wha…” this time a hand roughly pressing over his mouth and nose stifles his words and it doesn’t take long before Jack is struggling to suck in a breath.

 

“Can it cupcake,” the man leans closer, virtually hissing into his ear, “no more from you unless you want me to stitch those handsome lips of yours shut.” Jack wants to protest because he recognizes the tone as threatening but can’t make heads nor tails of the words, attention fully turned to the pressure pushing at his lungs from inside out and threatening to make them collapse.

 

With a jerk of his head, the man moves back, letting him draw in a pained gasp and the Bots are back to work. This time, Jack takes a longer while to blearily examine the bustling robots, their usually clunky hands replaced with vaguely medical looking appendages, saws, needles and pliers they use to none too gently unhook the IV’s so far strapped to him.

 

“ ‘kay, get this useless bag of meat and bones up, we gotta get him cleaned and presentable before he’s going to see his new ‘home’, right?”

 

For a couple of seconds the bright yellow is once again replaced by blue, a softer grasp wrapping around his wrist to help Jack up. 

 

It’s insane, how much he needed this and how much he’s blatantly refusing to admit it, something organic to touch and feel. Good things don’t last long however, the blue swept under the piercing yellow and the pull turns into a tug dragging Jack over the edge of the slab and onto the floor, his knees and side painfully colliding with the floor. He’s not lucid enough to even attempt to break his fall, dropping down listlessly with gravitation pushing a pitiful whine out of his chest.

 

“Aren’t you just precious! Stumbling like a newborn doe!” The cackle following those words is grating on Jack’s nerves and ears, more high-pitched than he initially expected given the lower tones of his tormentor’s voice. (He hasn’t stumbled!) There is a difference between that and being forcefully tossed onto the ground mind you! Jack would very much like to give this utter asshole a piece of his mind, tongue and brain still feeling too uncooperative to form full words but he’d be damned if he didn’t try, “you…”

 

“Me…” the voice mocks him, cybernetic fingers tangling into his hair to drag him up, Jack scrambling up to once again face the man once looming over him. (Does he take some fucked up delight in it or what?) “Yeah yeah, I know, me, I’m super handsome and an asshole, tell me something I don’t know yet Johnny boy.”

 

“No...” that’s just not right, nowadays few people know the name Jack has left behind like a snake shedding its skin, ‘nowadays’ being a fairly relative term since he can’t really tell how much time has passed since…(since Lilith!) That’s it, it’s coming back slowly, rage reigniting in the pit of his stomach.

 

“What is it John?” and back to reality, his short lived victory quickly forgotten,”  not liking this new-old name of yours? Want me to call you something else? “ The hand in his hair relents, now swapped to something more soothing, gentle, flesh fingers pushing the mussed up strands out of his eyes, “he…” just as the colour changes, so does the voice, not at its core but rather, in a way it’s used, “he, Jack, says, you will have to earn your name again, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…” It’s easier to focus on little details here and now than trying to wrap his head around the bigger picture, Jack taking the news as they come, one at a time. 

 

_ “Now baby!” _ The same lilt, the same inflection as the one he has heard in this man’s voice now streams through the speakers, deafeningly loud and annoying, except… except Jack knows the sound of his own voice, even if it’s distorted and crackling with static,  _ “don’tcha be getting all chummy with our new toy, get going Rhysie, do your freakin’ job! _ ”

 

As on a command, the bots start moving again, prying the comforting touch away and hauling unresisting Jack to his feet, little strength left in his weary bones to support his own weight and so he ends up dragged along to wherever they are taking him, the man, (Rhysie?), following close by. They don't manage to drag him out of his stupor however, brain trying to sluggishly process how on earth he’s hearing his own voice outside of his own head. Or how it sounds so mean and spiteful for that matter. 

 

The tiles are burning cold under his feet and then, hands and thighs, when they drop him down, a new room, again, sterile and bathed in bright light leaving no sliver of his bare body to the imagination. A drain to his side and a slight incline he can feel in the floor tell him exactly where he is. And what’s going to happen. 

 

He wasn’t mistaken, a bath just as he predicted, except nothing like the luxurious long soaks he’s used to, icy cold water beating across his back when he tries to curl and shield his body. There is no helping the distressed whimper escaping him, and in every other situation, he’d be ashamed to have ever let a sound like that pass his lips, not now however, too drained and unfocused. The water is coming from a hose, a  _ hose _ , (can you imagine this?!), held by the cyborg, distinctly reminding Jack of how the animals in the slaughterhouse are treated. He’d usually take great delight in degrading someone like this if it wasn’t him on the wrong end of this arrangement. 

A bar of soap skids across the tiles, coming to a stop just before him, and he catches an expectant look from the other man, “please, Ja..John, don’t make it harder on yourself than it has to be…”

 

The bar nearly slips from his wet hands, but Jack has made his mind up, weakly chucking it across the makeshift bathroom at the cyborg, “fuck... you.” There’s enough rage bubbling in him to help work through the sluggishness in his muscles, a short-lived spur that leaves him even more exhausted. It’s not that he even particularly wants to resist, it’s more about the defiance itself, feeling like independence and as essential to his being as the marrow in his bones. 

 

_ “Would you look at that! _ ” The voice is back, and Jack honestly doesn’t have any strength left in him to even bother trying to figure out who this imposter is, “ _ old chap still has it in him! But! As much as I’d love to see my boy fondle that body a lil’ bit, _ ” Jack misses the tiniest shade of red creeping over the other man’s cheeks. 

The stream of water slows down to a dribble and Jack counts that as a victory,  _ “you haven’t earned that! You have to the count of three before I order my Loaderbots to do it for you, and trust me, they can be reallly thorough! _ ” Jack doesn’t doubt that, “ _ one _ …” begrudgingly scrambling on his knees, he reaches for the discarded soap, Rhysie helpfully nudging it with his toe and earning himself a disapproving tut from the voice, “ _ two-three- too late _ !”

 

(What?) But he did listen to the order! It’s not his goddamned fault his bones feel like they are made of lead, if anything, it most likely is all thanks to the owner of that annoying voice! Despite his weak protests, the bots are already stomping closer, and if you were to ask Jack, he could really do without all those creepily looking appendages and the whole shebang looking as if pulled straight out of a horror movie about a mad surgeon.

 

“Jack! No, please, stop, wait!” At the very least, despite the frequent personality swaps, some part of the tall man seems to be somewhat sympathetic towards Jack’s cause, even if he follows his plea by completely freezing in place. 

 

“ _ What is it cupcake? You so eager to get your hands on him? Don’t you worry baby, all in due time, we get him nice and obedient and then daddy’s gonna play, if you’re a good boy I’ll even let you watch from the backseat, maaaaybeee even have some fun yourself after I’m through with him!” _

 

It doesn’t make sense but the wide-eyed look and the clear dread on the other man’s face is all Jack needs to know that he’s not going to like whatever that voice has in mind. What’s on  _ his _ mind however, are the clumsy and rough hands tugging him around, getting suds in his eyes and leaving no spot untouched. The Loaderbots are indeed very thorough, after all, he has had a hand in their programming himself, and, if Jack has anything to say, he will have the same hand in tossing them all into a metal compactor soon. Idle, unsorted thoughts of revenge help him pull through the humiliation. 

 

After they are done with him, Jack left on the floor, panting from whatever weak struggle he could put up, and with his head drooped low, all he can do is idly examine his overgrown, chipped fingernails, boney fingers splayed against the white tiles. (Has his hands alway looked so thin and fragile?)

 

_ “Rinse him Rhysie.” _ The order is instantly followed and somehow, the more Jack tries to huddle against the harsh stream of water, whining and shaking, the more insistent it gets. There are no traces of yellow in the man’s eyes, something Jack has already grown to associate with The Voice taking control, but his expression is hardened, something more sadistic taking over. It’s gone the moment the last of the suds flow down the drain, and the man is soon stepping closer, polished shoes now speckled with errant droplets.

_ “Go on, show him our gift. Aren’t you happy John? Now you’ll finally have something to call your own, your very first possession in this new life you have been granted! And remember, now, not even your body is yours!” _

 

The ‘gift’ makes something in his stomach sink, even more, violent shudders rattling through his still soaking wet body. Gentle hands brush aside the damp strands of his hair, warm fingers, god damn it, when was the last time he has felt something warm touch him, trailing over his throat before a collar locks around his neck with an ominous click.

 

Jack’s hands immediately fly to inspect this dubious ‘gift’, however, something else catches his attention, fingers skimming higher over the rough prickle of the stubble on his chin, and then, to the indentation of the scar cutting across his face. (How has he not noticed this before?)

 

“No, no no,  _ no... _ give it back!” wet skin slides over the tiles, Jack’s blood turned to ice as he lurches forward to weakly grasp the other man by the lapels of his vest, “my face! Give me back my FACE!”

 

The cyborg stumbles back surprised by the sudden attack, eyes wide and panicked.

 

“ _ Oh no, no you’re not getting that back cupcake,”  _ the voice sounds triumphant, clearly basking in Jack’s discomfort, “ _ it belongs to Handsome Jack and you are him no more John!” _

 

Anger and fear roll through his whole body, manifested in a single-minded desire to  _ kill _ , Jack using his bulk, for lack of anything more substantial, to pull the tangible representation of that spiteful voice down and onto the ground. The other man flails, scrambling away, somehow still intimidated by Jack’s very presence, shaky hands put up to create a barrier protecting his throat when Jack tries to strangle him in futile rage.

 

_ “Oh ho ho! Look at the claws on that kitten! So prissy my, my. Go on Rhysie, let’s see if the collar’s working properly!” _

 

Rhysie shoves him away, his movements uncertain and weak, and a  bright blue light blooms over the open palm of his cybernetic hand. Jack doesn’t get the chance to retaliate before a strong current of electricity arches from the collar around his neck and down to the very tips of his toes, distressed cry torn from his throat. Christ but it hurts, leaving aftershocks to tremble through his body. That’s still not enough to quench his fury, another pitiful attempt at getting his hands around that asshole’s throat made.

 

_ “Ha! Again Rhysie, again!”  _ This time, the shock makes his spine arch painfully, strained gasps following a sharp scream.  _ “Again!” _ The voice seems to be taking great pleasure in watching (how is it even watching them?) Jack writhe on the floor, fingers uselessly trying to wedge themselves under the collar and tear it away. After yet another ‘again’ and when the pain subsides, Jack can just about spot the other man fully rising to his feet, impossibly tall and distant, a shadow of a cruel smile playing on his lips.

 

_ “Again! That’s a good boy pumpkin! You’re loving it aint’cha? Oh I know, I know, this is the closest you’ll ever get to hurting -me-, right Rhysie? Again. Isn’t that fun? Almost like watching /the/ -again- Handsome Jack thrash on the floor like a dying fish pulled out of the water before you. AGAIN!” _

 

‘Again’s melt into one long stream of agony and misery, the voice promising to return the pain to the cyborg tenfolds for what he’s made to do and Jack can’t tell anymore if the man is just following orders or simply revelling in the sadistic pleasure of delivering pain.

 

The edges of his vision become clouded, bright light stinging against his watery eyes and it doesn’t take long before Jack’s consciousness decides to spare him any more suffering, taking him under a blissful wave of nothingness.


	2. tales from a hangman's twine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's less of a stream of consciousness kinda thing this time and a little background on how Jack found himself in this fucked up situation.

The first thing Jack registers is the bone-numbing cold, seeping through his skin and settling in shivers deep inside of his guts. He’s laid on a floor, rather than the bathroom tiles, smooth metal so typical of Helios’ design, hard against his cheek and hip. It’s not easy to level himself into a seated position, limbs refusing to cooperate, sluggishly demanding five more minutes of unconsciousness before the reality has to be acknowledged. Something’s telling him that he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep anyway, unless literally knocked out, not under those circumstances.

 

The place he finds himself in is oddly familiar, a longer while needed before he recognizes the machinery surrounding the forcefield locking him away from the rest of the world. No, no this can’t be true, this place, a room he has designed himself years and years ago, has always been a secret, once nearly completely destroyed by the bandits and the vault hunters, it’s previous occupant’s death a tight noose with a heavy weight dragging Jack deeper into his grief and madness.

 

Angel’s containment unit, refurbished and restructured but Jack knows this place by heart, despite avoiding it later in his life. How dare someone defile this place, how dare _anyone_ tread the sacred grounds and the proverbial grave of his daughter?!

Jack’s torn between yet another wave of remorseful heartache and burning hatred for his captors, dragged out of his musing by a feminine sounding voice.

 

“Oh, you are awake! I’ve been wondering how long it would take you,” definitely not human, tinged with that metallic throb only robots are capable of. Yet, it still carried emotions, deep sadness and resignation Jack can’t help but feel influencing his own mood.

 

“Wh...ere...are you?” His throat is dry, scratched raw from all the previous screaming, the very memory of the shocks wracking up and down his spine, sending another, stronger shiver and making the hairs on his body bristle.

 

“Over here,” the robot sounds chirpy, probably thanks to its programming but even that cannot hide the meekness belying its hurt.

 

It’s not easy to get up, knees threatening to give out from under him, but after a few unsuccessful tries, Jack slowly paces towards the edges of the force field, following the robot’s voice. He certainly doesn’t remember installing any AIs here, not to mention bots beside the maintenance loaders occasionally dropping by to keep the place spotless. And true to his suspicions, the dismantled robot he finds, undoubtedly is a new addition, lacking the Hyperion typical touch, both in colour as well as the design. Its chassis has been pried away, coiled cords and wires hanging out like gutted insides. It’s tiny, two blue eyes the only remnant of whatever face it used to have, held high above the ground by its frail arms and with lower body turned into a grotesque tangle of nanofiber strings. The robot seems to be plugged into a console that used to link Angel to the systems. If not for the barrier between him and the bot, Jack would already be tearing the connections down, the memory of his daughter defiled by some usurping drone, Atlas owned on top of that if he’s not mistaken. Would that mean that in his absence Hyperion has fallen prey to the once destroyed company? Is that why they are punishing him? But he thought almost no one survived Athena’s rage and then him buying out what remained of Atlas’ shares.

 

“Hi!” the robot at the very least tries to be cheerful, seemingly not having noticed the murderous rage bubbling in Jack’s eyes, “I’m Gortys! Who are you?”

 

Gortys? That rings some bells, last time he heard, some of the Vault Hunters were pursuing project Gortys but as far as he was aware, their search wasn’t particularly fruitful. Seems like they, or someone, have found what they were looking for.

 

“The fuck’s wrong with your optics, can’t you recognize me?”, voice laced with venom it still lacked that old sting and bite he used to be able to deliver.

 

“You _do_ look a lot like Handsome Jack, ever been told that? But you can’t be him, right?! Because Jack’s out there, with Rhys! He’s the one who did it to me but Rhys says we’re going to do good things, that we are going to find my Vault and fix everything!” _Does she seriously believe all of that?_ No one could be that stupid, and what is it about ‘Jack’ being out there? Could it be that one of his doppelgangers dared to steal his position? It makes him sigh in exasperation, that would explain a lot, thankfully however, they are nothing but a bunch of weak idiots, failed imitations of the original, and the moment he’s out of here, he’s going to fucking murder them along with that Rhys. “Hey!” Gortys is still demanding his attention, Jack’s tired eyes turning back to her, “hey can I ask you something? I’ve been stuck here for such a long time, have you heard any news about my friends? Fiona and Sasha, we came here together from Pandora to find my beacon but I haven’t seen them since we got separated and Jack took over the station…”

 

_Are AIs and bots even capable of such deeply rooted emotions and gut wrenching longing?_

 

* * *

  


For days Jack doesn’t get any real company, quickly growing frustrated with the lively Gortys, telling her to shut up enough times that she eventually falls quiet, clearly disturbed. Even though loaders show up a few hours, or at least what feels like hours, later, to hook him back up to an IV, the gnawing hunger keeps twisting his guts. It’s not only his stomach that feels awfully empty but his heart and brain too. The former aches for that burn from the tank, something he still hasn’t quite figured out yet but is positive must have been some sort of a drug. Withdrawal symptoms are fucking up with head and settle in his trembling hands, Jack reduced to nervous pacing and tearing the IVs out more than once. The bots always come back, subduing him with that passive force, blind and deaf towards his screams and curses. The latter however, is even worse, brain robbed of anything to keep it occupied, burning from the inside out and threatening to make him burst.

 

Jack has never been the one to take some time off and wind down unless his body betrayed him and demanded a few short hours of rest, one idea chasing another, always busy with his projects and too scared to slow down for fear of falling behind. And now the worst had happened, the vault hunters have knocked him out and he lost, not only to them but also to the mysterious voice, sliding into -his- rightful spot to replace him, steal what was his and impersonate Handsome Jack.

 

The anger and the feeling of crippling betrayal churn inside of him, swallowing the man and slipping through his parted lips in the form of weak curses.

 

He measures the passage of time by the slowly growing in length intervals of silence between Gortys’ bursts of talkativeness but at the very least he learns more about her and that Rhys. His former employee, now elected to by Hyperion’s president although, judging by the man’s behaviour, he’s nothing but a puppet in the voice’s hands. Gortys calls it ‘Jack’, sometimes ‘Jim’, too scatter-minded to pay any real attention to names, but it’s clear she, and apparently everybody else on Helios, believes that’s the real Jack.

 

Jack on the other hand, fumes, screams, lashes out at the bots, insulting them and Gortys in his anger until he can hear her almost crying, incapable of producing any real tears but upset nonetheless. Despite his multiple requests, threats and demands, she refuses to call him Jack, the closest she gets is ‘Jack-face’, fanning the flame of rage inside of him.

 

It’s worse than all the times he had to suck it up to Tassiter, at least back then, he still had the strength and subordinates to take his anger out on, now however, he burns with unrestrained need to kill and destroy. No amount of fists pounding against the machinery inside of his ‘cell’ can do any real damage, Jack eventually dislocating a few bones and left cradling his swollen, pulsing hand.

 

He can’t really sleep, occasionally curling on the cold, hard floor for a few moments of restless tossing, can’t eat or swallow because they don’t give him anything to eat, his mouth perpetually dry and throat hurting, can’t scream anymore because Gortys’ distressed pleads have quickly grown repetitive and boring. With no outlet for the growing frustration, Jack can’t help but keep relentlessly knocking his head against the invisible wall of weakness.

 

A couple of days must have passed, a far fetched assumption but he has worked himself into straight up passing out at least three times, body unable to stand the fever of his burning mind and just giving up. It’s lonely and quiet, too motionless and stale around him, so when the door whooshes open, the sound of someone’s footsteps is jarring for his unadjusted ears. As much as he craves some, any, human company, the isolation has left him over-sensitive towards the onslaught of new sensations.

 

“John?” _ah, Rhys, what an utter asshole_ , Jack thinks, huddled on the floor and facing away from the entrance, hands shoved between his thighs and body curled to preserve whatever heat there still is. “John.” God damn it, he’s not in the mood, blatantly ignoring the other man.

 

A sizzle comes, one his sluggish mind barely recognizes as the forcefield letting someone pass and soon, there is a warm hand on his shoulder, nudging slightly to make him roll over. As much as it nearly makes him groan, body starved for any form of warmth, it also makes his skin crawl, goosebumps rising all over. Couldn’t they have sent someone else? A lovely, busty nurse preferably, not someone who’s voice is so stupidly soft compared to the harsh metallic sounds Gortys and loaders produced that it settles heavily in his guts like a sinking stone.

 

“John, please, I have food for you, we want you off that IV, come on, eat…” perhaps, if he keeps pretending, the soothing touch and quiet voice will stay, finally lulling him into some twisted sense of safety and eventually, into a more restful sleep. No such luck, the grip on his arm tightening to give him a few shakes.

 

Begrudgingly, Jack sits up, fighting through the chill that has made his muscles uncooperative and heavy, a brush of the man’s shirt against his skin sending his heart into an overdrive and fight or flight instincts kicking in. He doesn’t follow either of those, settling on just scooting a bit farther away.

 

A simple bowl with an off-colour, sticky sludge, comes into his field of vision. It barely has any scent or taste but it’s warm, a hot lump sliding down his throat and heavily landing in his stomach when he swallows the first spoonful.

 

“Wh-what is this shit?” there is no strength left to scream or yell but there’s just enough to weakly swat the bowl away, some of the sludge spilling over the edge.

 

“Uhh, porridge, I’m sorry it can’t be anything better but you have to go easy on your stomach for now, okay?” No, _not okay_ , Jack’s lips pulling into a tight line, despite knowing he needs it and understanding that anything else would only upset his bowels, he refuses to eat any of that shit, partly because he’s stubborn and partly to see how far he can push his tormentor.

 

“Please, please, I’m authorized to feed you if you refuse, please, don’t make me do this…” Rhys looks miserable, as if it was him who got the short end of the stick here, his comical expression making Jack snort and turn his nose up with a ‘fuck you’ attitude.

 

He’s still holding onto the spoon, unwilling to give it back and once the other man tries to pry it away from him, Jack snatches the occasion to attack, his weapon of choice aiming for Rhys’ eyes. The cyborg is mainly long legs and flailing arms but there is a surprising amount of strength hidden in those limbs, something that seems to surprise the both of them when Jack’s shoved away and toppled over.

 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, here, let me … uhh help you…” Christ but he doesn’t want any fucking help, hissing and growling when an arm wraps around his shoulders to help him back into a sitting position.

 

There is warmth, hot and nearly burning, blooming against his side when he ends up pressed against the man’s chest, making Jack curl into it instinctively despite hating every second of it. He doesn’t resist when the spoon is taken away from him this time. He does, however, refuse when Rhys picks up a spoonful of the disgusting goop and nudges it to his mouth. Jack’s lips pull into a tight line, skin taut and cheeks even more gaunt as he thrashes about. He can’t make himself even try to get away from the warmth but moving within the confines of Rhys’ arm sets his nerves aflame and breath picking up. It all comes to a halt when a hand tangles into his overgrown hair, a sharp tug given to keep his head angled backwards. A growl that turns into a desperate cough rattles from Jack’s heaving chest, the collar pressing against the front of his throat making it hard to suck enough air in but the hand doesn’t relent. His body jerks about a couple more times before he completely slumps down, reduced to angry glares shot from the corner of his eye.

 

Overwhelmed by the sheer need to stay close, bone deep weariness and the adrenaline of the previous fight, his feelings stand in a sharp juxtaposition, clashing with one another. Jack’s mind eventually decides to shut down, leaving only numbness and thankfully sparing him any more internal fights and the degradation when his lips fall open to let the spoon slide in.

 

Rhys loosens the grip, his palm now a heavy burst of heat against the back of Jack’s head, more of a support to keep it up rather than a restraint as he lets his head droop down again, the pressure against his throat lifted.

 

For those few, fleeting moments, Jack’s finally at peace, no longer sparring with his thoughts, no longer bothered by the lack of strength in his apathetic limbs, soaking in the heat and calmed by the steady heartbeat, nearly deafening in the quietness of the room. He opens his mouth, closes it, swallows and opens it again, the repetitive, even motions washing away any conscious thought of defiance.

 

The spell is broken with the scrape of the spoon against the bottom of the empty bowl, everything coming back in full force, crashing into him and nerves becoming lit when it’s just too much, too sudden. At the same time Rhys is too close and too far, the proportions skewed when Jack’s mind swirls, barely able to register when he’s being laid down on the floor. He shuts his eyes tight against the nausea rising in his throat and ignores the pathetic whine someone has made.

 

* * *

 

It’s six more meals, slowly growing to become something more substantial,  turning from watered down goop to solids and a cup of water, before the bots finally remove the IV completely, his strength returning ever so slowly. The thirst inside of him doesn’t subside however, but neither the loaders nor Rhys want to tell him what that mystery drug is, hiding behind lies such as, ‘you’ll know when the time is right’ or, ‘not authorised to tell’.

 

The right time comes maybe a week down the road since his awakening, although the passage of time is still fairly fuzzy. The bots bring in a wheelchair, something he adamantly refuses to sit in, changing his mind when he collapses only a few paces outside of the forcefield. It’s a completely new dimension of humiliation, being wheeled about Helios and with none of his former employees paying any real attention to the broken shell of a man slumped in the wheelchair. He suspects he’s purposefully taken down a longer route only for the situation to sink in all the deeper.

 

To his surprise, they reach his old office. The place hasn’t changed much during his absence, aside from an addition of a small, cramped desk in the corner, a mockingly unimposing placard stating that it belonged to ‘Rhys Bryce’, Hyperion presiden’. His desk on the other hand, looks just the way he has left it, papers scattered haphazardly and various screens flickering with a faint glow. The cyborg is there, uncomfortably leaning against his desk but it looks like they are alone in the room, Jack shooting wary glances from under the tangled mess his bangs have become.

 

“So, where’s that bastard that have stolen my place?”

 

“Oh cupcake,” there it is, the voice, streaming from the omnipresent speakers all around the station, “I did not steal it, I have merely… inherited it,” a flash of bright light and a perfect, half transparent copy materializes before him, sat lazily sprawled on the yellow swivel chair, “as was my intended purpose, John, or, as I like to call you, Handsome Jack 1.0, the old, failed, useless version.”

 

“Namakay’s project… how?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, project or not, you can’t deny that our positions have… reversed, yeah? Jack 1.0?” Of all the possible scenarios, Jack didn’t consider the exact copy of himself to fuck him over like this, which, complicates the situation to say the least, a sinking feeling in his guts making him slump in his chair. “As for the ‘how’, after your death, this nerd over there found me and oh so dutifully brought me back to fulfill my purpose, eh? Right Rhysie-cakes?”

 

The AI keeps rambling on, obviously pleased with himself, his words of praise making the cyborg both uncomfortably shift from one foot to another and progressively turn a deeper shade of red. Nakayama has tasked himself with one job and one only, to create a perfect copy of Handsome Jack to take over his empire, usurping his place and rule in his place should anything ever happen to Jack. Except, Nakayama has long been dead, and whatever codes to reverse the AIs orders there were, the mad scientist took them to his grave.

 

It’s not easy, muscles protesting with a dull ache and bones feeling brittle and weak, to stand up and straighten to his full height, Jack staring at the AI with all the defiance he still has left, “stand down, that is an order! You stupid glitch! You were intended to take over only in case of my death!” The outburst takes its toll on his weakened body, sending Jack stumbling back and heavily landing on the wheelchair, the force making it roll back a few inches.

 

“And that is exactly what I did,” the Voice, the AI, sounds so malicious Jack is nearly taken aback, wondering if he himself always sounded like that. Or rather, worrying how on earth he no longer can find those spiteful tones in his own voice anymore. “For all everybody knows and cares, you are dead meat, John!”

 

No, no no no, he’s not, he’s here, maybe a louder call for his PA or secretary would be enough to make everyone acknowledge his return, bowing down to him once again and begging for forgiveness. There will be none, especially for this little code monkey, worryingly pacing closer to check on him. If only he could remember the name of any of the staff that used to constantly buzz around him, as easily replaceable as they were vital to his work.

 

“I am NOT!”

 

“Oh but you literally -were- dead, shot to death like a rabid animal and hoo boy do I need to thank that bitch Lilith for that! Preferably in form of a nice, little chat as I break every single bone in her body! Sadly, Johnny-boy, it looks like someone must have fiddled with your private new-U station, when me and Rhysie got there, there was only a useless, brain dead pile of meat and bones, not a single, smart thought in that tiny brain of yours! Seems to me like not much have changed, eh? Still not the brightest even though you now walk and breath on your own, like a little puppet!” The AI illustrates his point with theatrical wiggle fingers, as if imitating a puppeteer pulling on the strings.

 

He’s shooting forward before his brain can even register it, body burning through some previously inaccessible resources. Jack’s up the stairs and sliding across the desk in a blink, fire ignited in his veins even as his hands pass uselessly through the mirror holo projection of himself. The fire quickly turns into a white hot spike of electricity arcing from his neck when Rhys finally decides to put an end to his brief rebellion.

 

Jack is left on the floor, panting and with the chill of cold sweat creeping up his spine.

 

“Nu-uh, easy there cupcake, I’ll be very cross with you if you damage my shiny new toy. Toy! Ohh that’s precious, get it? _YOU_ Johnny boy are my new toy!” the AI nearly doubles over, cruel laughter unnaturally echoing in the large room.

 

“Not...dead,” Jack spits through gritted teeth, “never been...but how?” It’s hard to keep his thoughts on track but he needs to know why he’s still being kept around. If the AI is his near perfect copy, then he knows he wouldn’t have kept a rival alive unless there was something to be gained there.

 

“See, we let a bunch of lab rats play with your body, maybe figure out how to make it my alternative bodysuit, or maybe scavenge whatever was left and throw the rest to the skags, who cares. Except the more they prodded and poked, the more something within you awakened, a latent gene they theorized, charging the cells and brimming with energy. So, what do you do with a freaky version of a _battery_ ?” Jack can’t breath, not because of the aftershocks but because of an invisible fist of fear clenching around his chest. ”Yeah that’s right! You use it to _charge_ things! And what better a thing to charge than a _VAULT KEY,_ innit cupcake?!”

 

Christ, this absolute madman, Jack is seething with rage and heavy fear, a lump in his throat making it hard to speak. It makes sense, the mystery drug he has been craving, Angel’s old containment cell, the collar.

 

“You lunatic!” He wants to protest, tell them to fuck off, that he won’t let himself be used like that or kept locked, he has his goddamned rights and a legacy they are trying to take away from him!

 

“Nah,” the AI interrupts, “I prefer the term visionairy but I see where you could have gotten lost there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im sorry im so sorry my heart broke doing that to gortys im so sorry but its only going to get worse...


	3. courageous and contagious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> things take turn for much, much worse and yet it's just the beginning of this slippery slope  
> -please, as always, mind the tags

“I am NOT a dog to be trained!” Jack snaps and snarls and the angrier he gets, the more unbearable the itch under his skin becomes.

“Sure thing cupcake,” the voice, his voice, and fuck but he will never get used to hearing it like that, “but you _are_ my bitch.” It’s followed by a nasty, overly long chuckle, one that blooms into a full blown laughter, the AI slapping his thighs and bending over with glee at his own joke. Jack can hear a disapproving sigh coming from the cramped desk located just by the entrance to the... -correction- _his_ office. “Come on Rhysie,” the voice croons, “remind this little bitch of his place.”

The man in question hesitates before he finds some semblance of resolve, coming closer at a brisk pace until he's up the stairs and just by Jack’s grandiose desk, the controller to the collar gripped tight in his hand. “Heel,” he hisses and the collar lights up even before Jack can consider flipping him off.

Whenever Jack tries to say something, protest, agree, beg for it to stop or scream his discontent, the shocks spark again, coming in rapid succession until he’s left panting on the floor, trying to bite back the involuntary tears. Betrayed even by his own body, huh?

 “Jack…” he can hear the quiet, uncertain voice, “ease up or he’s gonna fry.” He’s not grateful, not by a long stretch, he just thinks that this little usurper has finally said something sensible.

Eventually Rhys gives him enough of a breather to slowly, ever so slowly make his way up the stairs, despite his better judgement and to spite his own pride. Each and every new humiliation, Jack carefully adds them up and then rounds them off with a promise of vengeance.

He leans, heavily and with only one hand, against the desk, fingers tightly gripping the smooth wood. Just as he eases out a relieved sigh, Jack spots a flash of movement, the holo projection of the AI swinging his hand and just like that, a much more solid palm collides with his forearm. The cold metal bites into his skin, breaking through what little strength was keeping him up and he’s dropping down, the unforgiving artificial gravitation setting up a very personal meeting between his cheek and the side of the desk.

When the sudden shock subsides, Rhys is crouching down beside him, eyebrows pinched with concern as if he wasn’t directly responsible for what has happened. There’s a hand offered, to help him up, or patch the damage, Jack doesn’t know, doesn’t care and he certainly doesn’t want it. Doesn’t want to lean into the warm, flesh hand against his arm either but that’s what he does and he needs to cover up this weakness right this moment. Thankfully, Rhys provides him with the opportunity he needs, the hand brushing down his side - and christ but he goes a bit cross eyed at that - to the hem of the worn down sweatpants they have given him. Something slips into the pocket and Jack wastes no time before diving after to examining what it is. A granola bar, or rather, a reward for obeying, nothing more but a dog’s treat, Jack’s vision turning red around the edges. It doesn’t occur to him that it might be a strange act of kindness, both of them briefly hidden here, in the blind spot of the shadow cast by the desk, and away from the ever vigilant eyes of the AI.

“Shit, I ain’t your buddy, save the treats for whatever sad sods wanna play with you!” Jack spits out, rubbing the blooming bruise on his cheek and feeling the prickle of a stubble against his hand. With a little bit of a heavy heart, and yeah, he could really use some extra proteins, he weakly chucks the bar at the infuriating man.

The AI lets out another burst of static-y noise once it catches on the little rebellion and its flesh and bone and cybernetics representation completely freezes in his spot. “Oh Rhys, Rhysie _Rhysie_ , thought I wouldn’t notice? Idiot,” the playful, patronizing tone changes to pure venom in less than a split of a second, “where did that come from? Did you forget what we do about you trying to be _nice_ to people?” A visible shiver runs up Rhys’ whole body as the AI stalks closer, apparently deeming walking straight through the desk the most efficient route. “Did you forget what we do about having _friends_? Why don’t you remind us?”

The man lets out a pitiful sob, scuttling a little bit farther away from the approaching hologram, but only as far as he apparently dares, “we...Jack, we don’t have friends. Friends are overrated,” he recites and while he started uncertain, Rhys finishes without an ounce of hesitation.

“Good. What happens when we try to pretend we can keep friends?”

“They die,” Rhys’ voice is choked up, quieter now and his eyes are downcast until his cybernetic arm springs up to land a slap across his own face.

“Full sentences!” With every inch of confidence Rhys loses, the AI gains, voice streaming from the speakers growing louder and more frayed around the edges, just like his outline, glitching out in places, “Haven’t we been over it already baby?” The petname sounds more like a slur, and as far as Jack knows, it’s intended to be exactly that, “details you absolute cretin, Full, detailed explanation. What happened to your so-called friends?”

Rhys looks mortified but he seems to know better than to resist, “we round them up, you give a speech and I tie ropes to their feet. You…” he sharply sucks the air in, breath coming in short bursts as if he was trying not to throw up, “...you airlock them and call them celebratory b-balloons.”

“Atta boy, wasn’t so hard, was it?” Truth be told, in any other circumstances, Jack would have found the mental image of people tied to the station’s hull, just bouncing aimlessly in zero g, absolutely hilarious. He can almost taste a bubble of hysterical giggle crawling up the back of his throat but the AI doesn’t let him enjoy the moment for too long. “Aaand? What else do we do?”

Jack doesn’t feel like he’s following the conversation all that well but Rhys does, apparently not his first rodeo, the man steeling himself, gaze suddenly turned to white hot iron and focused on Jack, “we punish.”

“That’s it kitten, you know damn well it pains me to hurt either of you,” the AI releases an obviously fake sigh and Rhys tenses up even as he gets up to pace back to Jack, the heel of his boot grinding into the abandoned bar, “but a lesson must be taught.”

“I know,” he wipes any remaining wetness off of his face.

“Deal with this sorry thing however you like. _I_ , will deal with your insubordinance later.”

Rhys drags him up by a fistful of hair, a hissed “you’re just never gonna change?” brushing over his ear but otherwise doesn’t do much before sending him off with a couple of loaderbots.

Later, he discovers, it wasn’t mercy but just prolonging his misery, Jack strapped down to a medical table, and screaming his throat raw as the loaders meticulously pump raw eridium into his flesh. The burn doesn’t let him pass out as he watches for the very first time the intricate patterns underneath his skin come to life, their outline finally visible and lit up with a sickly pale blue.

 

* * *

 

It all started with a few scratches, Jack absently trying to get to the bottom of a persistent itch crawling up his arm. However, when the red marks didn’t want to fade, he inspected closer only to find out that certain parts of his skin were off colour rather than picking up on the flushed hue. Some more scratching later, chipped nails leaving a couple deeper gashes welling up with specks of blood, and Jack had discovered that the discoloured spots actually interconnected to create patterns stretching all over his left side. That could mean only one thing and he did a pretty good job of hiding the empty pockets between the layers of skin from everyone for a good couple of days.

Until now, the impassive med bots having strapped him down to a medical grade bed, tighter than ever before and only after running an extensive scan over his shivering body.

He resisted the scan on principle, kicking and screaming even though the light rays skimming over him were harmless. That’s where harmless ended, Jack now pinned down to the point of being completely unable to move, fight or flight instincts kicked up to an eleven, and with countless needles piercing into his skin, molten fire forced into his skin.

Last time he got a tattoo, he prided himself on his resilience to pain, bravely sitting through the sting on the inside of his wrist and paying little mind to the fumbling artist. And, if his memory didn’t fail him in this particular instance, high off his rocks so that everything felt pleasantly dulled. Now on the other hand, the liquified eridium feels like it’s about to burst through his skin, pooling into swollen bumps. Jack’s not entirely certain where the pain is the most excruciating, at least four bots working simultaneously. As such he can’t even decide on which one of them he should focus his spiteful gaze, glaring the only thing he can do in this helpless situation although even that is taken away from him when one wave of corrosive sting after another forces him to screw his eyes shut and bite back the whines. His bravado only lasts till they start working on his more sensitive side while the ache from the previous injections fully settles in. A brief glance at his forearm proves that perhaps the bots aren’t as effective as the mastermind behind this new torture would have liked, the volatile element spreading out within its boundaries but never reaching the narrower portions, the designs looking uneven and choppy at best. It’s hardly any consolation, as is having the constant craving inside of him violently quenched. Some moments it feels like the oily liquid sluggishly crawling under his skin is alive, sparking a different kind of terror, even more when some of the bumps actually break due to his constant squirming and start oozing. Jack can’t make his mind up as to which part is worse, the eridium slithering under the skin or the times when it comes into contact with his blood, burning like a white hot flame.

With eridium however, comes strength, coiled inside of him and thrashing about, begging to be released and stumped each time by the collar, the old bite cutting across his face reignited anew. It chokes him, the pressure against his throat and the panic rising in his chest until there is no more space for the screams - so far tucked away. While the howls bring little to no relief, at least that’s something helping him take his mind off of the pain, even if only by a fraction. He will let the shame about the intermixing profanities and pleads get to him later, too busy trying to beg his way out of the reality.

The intensity of his screams reaches levels where Jack is convinced it should shake Helios clearly off it’s orbit but all he achieves is screaming himself unconscious for a couple moments, reawakening to the nightmare with a sore throat and a ring in his ears. The restraints don’t even have enough give to let him strain against them, muscles squished and limbs long gone numb. Jack has by now lost any coherency, blind and deaf to anything beside the repetitiveness of pain blooming across his skin.

The power in him, it doesn’t let itself be restrained for too long, spilling over, overflowing his systems and tearing through the muscles clinging to his shoulder blades. The sudden burst arcs across his spine, forcing him into a violent jerk, some of the bindings snapping, the force undoubtedly leaving bruises but he doesn’t have any presence of mind left to pay any real attention to it. He’s more focused on the radiating pain shooting up from his right shoulder, now twisted at an unnatural angle and limp against the restraints.

It takes him a few moment to realize the limb has been dislocated, the new source of anguish wracking up his body and overshadowing the temporary respite from the surplus energy. It, however, is enough to give the bots a pause and send the door leading into the room swinging open, none other than Rhys striding in. Whether he wants to admit to it or not, something in his guts shrinks when he spots the man coming from behind the one way mirror and swatting the bots away. The echo eye lits up, blessedly bright blue and after assessing the damage, Rhys is quickly working on undoing the ties. With enough strength that would give a more conscious Jack a moment of confused consideration, he rolls him onto his front. Driven by pure instincts, Jack tries to curl in on himself, barely registering Rhys snapping latex gloves onto his hands, and then vigorously resisting the bots as they are ordered to pin him flat to the elevated bed. The man hesitates for a few moments, staring down at Jack’s wet face before he eventually gets a strong hold of his wrist and starts pulling. It pulls a sharp yelp out of him but the arm pops back into place after a couple agonizing minutes and then he can finally breathe a little easier.

The pressure lifts and he’s left struggling with the choked back sobs as Rhys takes a few steps back, investigating the remaining damage from a safer distance. Once the pain subsides to a more manageable levels, Jack takes stock of the situation, no longer tied down, feeling slowly returning to his numb limbs, and with a surprising amount of strength still left in him. The eridium definitely recharged his depleted resources, not nearly enough to heal the damaged tissue but he doesn’t want that right now, another emotion shyly poking its head from beneath the overwhelming exhaustion. Rhys is right there, defenseless to a naked eye and with his guard down, the controller to the collar nowhere in sight.

Jack’s up in the air before he can register what’s going on, weightless and lurching forward, energy crackling all around him and arcing off his body. The bright blue glow overshadows the sterile lights of the room as his hand connects with the front of Rhys’ throat, the man slammed into the nearby wall and letting out a squeak when his head smacks into it. The blow is going to take that idiotic, surprised expression clean off of his face, Jack’s dead certain of it, the partial designs on his left forearm twisting and coiling till the light fully envelops his fist.

All that’s left in him, is charged into the swing, and as he watches his own fist surge towards Rhys’ face, a heavy weight drops in his stomach. The light goes out with a fizzle a couple of inches away from the target, disappointment stinging far more than his knuckles once the weak punch finally connects. It’s barely enough to jerk Rhys’ head away, his eyes screwed shut regardless and just like that, Jack’s slumping down, shaky knees no longer able to support his weight.

His hands slide down to weakly grab onto the front of the cyborg’s clothes, Jack clinging for dear life, frustrated and back to a more fragile state. The gravity drags him down but before his spinning head can reach the ground, there are arms wrapping around him, Rhys holding him up. Against his better judgement, Jack can’t resist pressing into the warmth enveloping him now. He’s shaking, from the residual pain, exertion and sweat drying up on his skin, and Rhys, Rhys is a solid presence that holds him tight enough that the shudders don’t rattle all of his bones. The weight in his stomach melts away, replaced by something going against the artificial gravity, the cold air he breathes in suddenly struggling past his clenched throat. Regardless, it’s not a feeling he can attribute any negativity to, eyelids growing heavy and Jack’s not sure if he’s about to pass out or fall asleep. His surroundings lose any logical proportions, Helios narrowed down to the non existent space between two bodies. It feels like those few precarious moments when you drop over a precipice and your weight has no reason to tie you down  It doesn’t last long, the other man starting towards the bed again, and lugging the dead weight in his arms along, Jack sluggishly dragging his feet.

“Come on John, there’s still work to be done,” the words are a soft whisper brushing to his ear, a stark contrast to the previous screams filling the room and yet they still make him pause, now boxed between the man and the edge of the bed.

“No, no no no,” his own voice is a hoarse croak, Jack’s fingers curling tighter into the fabric, despite the obviously high thread count, too rough under his touch - no longer accustomed to anything beside the smooth hardness of metal, “I...can’t...enough, please…”

Rhys stops, doesn’t try to disentangle himself from the desperate grip, his hand now counting every vertebrae threatening to pierce through the paper thin skin, even based on being touched alone, Jack can tell how badly his spine is sticking out, “he won’t be happy…” 

Another ‘please’ is out of his mouth before he can even consider stopping it, Jack hiding his shame into the crook of Rhys’ neck, clinging to the man like he was a lifeline, small sounds of uncertain protest pressed into the warm skin. Rhys’ scent fills his nose, clean albeit sharp to his senses and right here, still held in his enemy’s embrace and high on the pure bliss of the contact, Jack feels safer than he has felt in a long time. Not exactly safe, not by a long shot, but safer and it’s still managing to rip apart whatever’s left of his defenses.

“Keep it coming,” Rhys murmurs, his cheek now a comforting heat against the side of Jack’s head and the hand at the back of it gently running through the sweaty mess of his hair, “keep the begging coming and I may reconsider risking letting you off the hook today…” 

This greedy bastard, Jack can barely work himself into anything even close to anger at that, resignation hacking away at his pride. “Rhys…” he starts, dignity a concept so foreign to him these days that he’d have troubles grasping it even with a dictionary, “...can’t handle it anymore, please… Rhys,” the only thoughts mulling about in his addled brain are scrambling to piece together something compelling enough to convince the other man, “...Rhysie…” he recalls the affectionate term, slung about by the AI like a slap, “...Rhysie please no more… make it stop.” The pleads dissolve into assorted pleas and pet names, his voice sounding wet even to his own ears but Jack doesn’t care anymore. Even if it’s not going to work out, and he sincerely hopes it will, it still feels good to beg, because Rhys, unlike the bots, actually listens and reacts - a testament to ground his existence in the reality. Jack can register the curve of his smile, refuses to think about the cruel angle of the expression and instead, chooses to focus on the implications.

Once Rhys has had his share, he finally pries Jack away from his persona, and there is a noticeable shift to his presence, the man standing a bit straighter, voice taking on a commanding tinge as he orders the bots to see Jack back to the containment unit.

 

* * *

 

Laying curled on the unforgiving floor and plagued by the ghost of the comforting touch, Jack carefully reassesses his situation. The president of Hyperion might be dead scared of the CEO but there were cracks in his resolve, something Jack could sink his fangs into and see how much he can chew off.

Exhaustion mercifully spares him any nightmares although the respite is fleeting when later in the night, the AI decides to wake him up. It says there’s a treat for him, and finally, finally it’s something he can appreciate, agonized screams streaming in through the loudspeakers. It’s Rhys’ turn to beg, Jack’s name a sweet chorus to the song of pain and violence he sings. Jack can’t tell exactly what the AI is putting the man through but it still puts him in a giddy mood, his laughter mixing with the concerned cries from Gortys as she keeps calling for Rhys. 

It’s no ‘brave patient’ sticker from a doctor but Jack feels satisfaction coursing through him regardless, even as he cradles his bruised side, addiction sated and burning brighter than his spite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apparently all it took was a few words of praise to drag me back to this hellish fic,  
> on a side note, thanks everyone who pitched in and helped along <3  
> i'm about halfway done with the next chapter and hopefully we're in for some fun times  
> also, i'm sorry i rarely reply to the comments here, i usually don't have anything particularly smart or coherent to say, i still cherish them and go back to them whenever my muse dwindles down so yeah, please comment away <3


	4. supercali-pessimistic-expiali-narcissistic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack learns things about himself he perhaps wished he didn't know and a certain type of rebellion is set in motion.

Between the chafing of the collar and the slow, steady burn of eridium now crawling under his skin, Jack’s never truly comfortable. And that is not taking into the account the constant chill making his naked skin numb, aching joints, and sore spots he gets from laying down on the hard floor. He has long given up on scratching the itch just to the side of his neck, where the collar bites a little bit too hard into his skin - it only ended up with him breaking the skin and making things a thousand times worse. At the very least, Rhys has slipped him a pair of sweatpants. Perhaps as a small ‘I’m sorry’. Doesn’t really matter, the material feels awful against his skin, making it crawl, threads catching against the layer of hair on his legs and driving him mad.

The shallow gashes, on his neck and all of his left side, have started healing and as he’s contemplating yet another undoubtedly uncomfortable sleeping arrangement on the floor, the goddamned bot with her chirpy voice disturbs the silence.

“Hey, John, have you… have you heard any news about my friends? I’m getting a little bit worried here, maybe they have just forgotten about me? Even Rhys doesn’t come down here anymore…”

He cracks one eye open, weighing in his mind whether it is worth getting up, mouth eventually setting into an unnerving smile.

“It’s Jack, for the last time you glorified trash can. And, yeah, yeah actually I know exactly what they are up to these days,” he paces closer to the edges of the field, palms resting flat against the concentrated energy. It buzzes and tickles his skin, impenetrable because that’s what he has designed it to be. “See, your pal Rhysie? Yeah, the asshole one, turns out he and the rest of your buddies got into some spat, you know how  _ friends _ can sometimes be” with great pleasure he implies that she doesn’t really know, inferior in more ways than just one, ”dunno the details but boy trust me apparently the man completely flipped out,” divide and conquer or so does the saying go and Jack tucks his self satisfaction closer to his heart, “vented them right into space. Funny right, thought you lot were a bit closer than that.”

The two bright dots of her eyes droop into semi circles, Gortys instantly starting to protest, claiming that she doesn’t believe him.

“Oh cupcake, what does it matter? The facts are the facts, you’re here all alone with the good ole’ me, gutted and trussed up like a slow roast, if that doesn’t convince you, I could ask for some more proof. Bet Rhysie’s gonna be all overjoyed to get you some snaps, didya know they probably didn’t die right away?”

“No, no no no, Jim, please, that can’t be true, please stop,” she begs, sounding heartbroken, her convictions wavering and only serving to fuel Jack’s own sadistic nature.

“Jack!” his reaction is instantaneous, fists banging against the shimmer separating them, “fucking...when will you learn?! It’s Jack, always been, always will be, goddamned Handsome Jack! Shut up! I’m not done here, oh… no, not yet, I’ve airlocked enough people in my life to know the exact details. Pray they breathed out when the vacuum sucked them out, because that only means suffocating, a couple minutes tops and then it’s all over, just your corpse hanging out there, Rhysie said they should still be tied to the hull, wanna pay them a visit? You be good and help me out of here might gonna take you sightseeing cupcake. And if they weren’t lucky? Did you know humans have lungs? Kinda vital, little floppy bags but you know what happens if the air in them suddenly expands? They  _ pop _ !” she’s sobbing in earnest by now and Jack feels like he could fly.

“Stop! Stop Jace, please!” Oh but he doesn’t want to, going into as many cruel details as his swiss cheese memory can recall.

It eventually leads to her completely shutting him off, quiet sans an occasional whirl of her deficient frame. Which quickly grows boring, silence falling between them, Jack left trying to catch his breath after his exhausting tirade. That is, until her algorithms finally reach some conclusion, “I...I need to talk to Rhys, this is just some misunderstanding. You’re lying!”

“Yeah good luck with that, doubt he’ll want to...or be allowed to for that matter,” he scoffs and laughs, not a single trace of mirth to the sound leaving his chest. Gortys doesn’t seem particularly deterred, the station she’s hooked up to lighting up, the little robot’s equivalent of taking a deep breath as she apparently reaches deeper into Helios’ systems.

The noise, it can only be described as ear piercing, Jack needing a few moments to figure out that what starts as ‘rh’ ends in a ‘ys’ and shakes through the whole station. He’s at the very least doubtful of her methods because so far, his screams hadn’t achieved anything beside giving him a sore throat.

“Damn it, pipe down jukebox, this is getting you nowhere.”

She pauses, examines him and says, in that annoyingly chirpy voice of hers, “I can achieve frequency high enough to make humans’ ears bleed and brain boil.”

For once he’s grateful for the dubious safety of his prison. It was designed for Angel, to keep her locked as much as it was intended to keep her safe and protected, the shimmer of energy muffling and distorting the danger of anything ranging from radiation to, as it happens, certain sound frequencies. And so Jack plops himself down on the ground and decides to simply observe the apparent destruction she’s wrecking.

It doesn’t take long for the door to the locked off space to open, Rhys with two Hyperion soldiers in stride barging in.

“Gortys! Stop!” There he is. The bastard. Another wave of roiling screech makes the two soldiers keel over and Rhys grab onto the doorframe.

“Rhys!” she peeps, optics narrowed into two slits, “Where’s Fi and Sasha? What did you do? Was he lying to me?!” The brief breather in between the shrieks howling through Helios lasts only about as long as it takes the man to reply.

“They...ahh, please, calm down, it wasn’t my fault, Gortys! Please!” The wailing starts again, one of the soldiers dropping down into a quickly spreading pool of dark blood pouring out of their eyes, nose, mouth and ears, Rhys letting out a yelp and tripping away, both hands pressed to his ears. “Gortys! You’re killing everyone! There’s ten thousand people on this station!”

She quiets down only long enough to shoot a scalding glare at the man, “that’s what I was designed to do! I-I don’t care, don’t want to care! Where’s Vaughn and Athena? Answer me Rhys!”

Rhys screams when she resumes, struggling to make his way closer to the bot but only gets a warning to stay away. How the man is still alive is beyond Jack but at the same time, traitors dropping dead left and right, Rhys’ suffering, the spine she shows and the general mayhem...Jack feels alive again. Safely tucked away from all of that and eventually pacing closer to the forcefield.

“Hey there kitty cat, need some help?” Not that he’s particularly willing to do that but hey, he’s great and he surely could just smack the bot into submission. If he wanted that is. Rhys’s watering eyes center on him, the man mouthing something, the sound drowned out but from where Jack is standing? It sure looks like a plea. “All you gotta do is let me out, can’t do much with this thing on my neck,” he tugs at the collar, lips curling over his teeth in a mockery of a smile. By now Rhys is nearly kneeling on the floor, uselessly shuffling about, stuck between a rock and a hard place. Let Jack out or let Gortys scream Helios’ population to death, the choice is his and Jack anxiously keeps wearing down a path along the edges of the field. A tiger in its cage, the irony of the situation gnawing at his hind brain. 

The other soldier drops down and Rhys uses the listless body to haul himself that little bit closer to the console. Frankly, Jack feels like that moron is missing out on the opportunity to be saved, which, somehow, stings what’s left of his pride, a sinking feeling of uselessness. One he’s not quite accustomed to, fists colliding with the invisible barrier, “don’t be stupid Rhysie, I’m right here!”

He’s ignored, again, Rhys finally reaching his destination, clammy hands struggling with the tangled up cords till he fishes out the one he apparently was looking for, tipped in a jack that he immediately slots with the port at his temple. 

Or at least tries to, missing the first time and only successful the second time around, body arching once the connection is made before he slumps down, a puppet with the strings severed.

A second later and a blissful, ringing silence takes over the station, Gortys producing a few broken whirls, a forced reboot momentarily dimming her lights. 

“No…” a whisper announces that she’s back online and Jack’s head cocks as he curiously watches the events unfold, “no, no, don’t show me…” she’s not talking to him but it’s easy to figure out the one and only sovereign of the station got its digital paws on her, “please, that’s enough…I don’t want to see them, please...”

Her voice glitches in some spots, and to his surprise, Jack can… ‘see’ is not the right word, but rather, sense her code being overtaken by something violent and malicious. The other code, and if it was something he perceived with his eyes, he’d attribute a colour to it, different to hers, a warning sign his human brain interprets as deep scarlet of imminent danger, it nearly cannibalizes the pure white hues. A blood spilling onto and melting the snow, the only way he can translate it into something understandable. Huh. Well, that’s an interesting development, Jack dragged out of his musing when a few strings of her code reach out towards him and harmlessly bounce off of the forcefield. The world around regains its dimensions, something Jack hasn’t noticed gone for the last couple seconds and he shakes his head, eyes screwed shut and only squinting open when he realizes that the snowflakes of data reaching out towards him was her broken voice addressing him, “Jim...p..leas.. fi...d… Vau...n.” 

The white dissolves completely. As does Jack’s focus, his surroundings fully back to normal and he’s left wondering what the fuck has just happened. No time to ponder that before the shackles keeping the bot hanging in the air release and she drops down, momentarily motionless before her spindly arms bend at an unnatural angle, hoisting what’s left of her body up. “Now… that was refreshing,” same voice modulator but Jack would recognize this particular flavour of spite everywhere. The bot and its new inhabitant scoot closer to the unconscious Rhys, “hey, meatbag, rise and shine,” a slap lands across the man’s face, probably less forceful than the AI intended in the first place given how it stares accusingly at Gortys’ hand, “this thing is absolutely useless. Stupid Atlas, can’t even build a frickin robot,” the ramble continues even as Rhys stays motionless. 

“Why didn’t you do that from the start? I mean, before hooking her up to the station?” Jack can’t help but be curious, feeling oddly safe now that the AI has currently been reduced to a small, unimposed and partly gutted bot. It draws the attention to him, the AI scuttling Gortys’ sad remains across the floor with the use of the arms only.

“Why? Incompatible software, can pilot this thing about but that’s about it,” an echo of a sigh, optics narrowing down at a sharp angle and arms coming up to cross over the tangle of wires in something so essentially ‘Jack’ he subconsciously mirrors the expression, “can’t really access the Vault related subsystems. Not even after dissecting this glorified trash can.”

“Perhaps,” Jack tries, forcing a sweet smile onto his face, although, he’s not fooling anyone, acutely aware that this is the very first time he has found himself all alone with the AI, without the buffer in the form of Rhys and his unpredictability. Which feels a tiny bit like staring into a mirror except one that has been broken, the reflection warped and suddenly glaring right  _ into _ him. He swallows and tries again, “perhaps something I could help with. Think, my...” he trails of, opting for crouching down to get closer to her eye level, “ _ our  _ genius and these fingers, quite the miracle workers they are, huh?”

The AI lets out a sound akin to a snort, “cute. Maybe one day when I’ve broken you down enough and you’ve learned your place.”

“Not likely,” he’s back to standing up and glaring down the length of his nose, enjoying those few fleeting moments the height advantage is his.

“Hey, it’s no electric sheep but I can dream, eh, Johnny boy?” 

Jack laughs, as surprised as he isn’t, by the unexpected understanding they share. Yeah. Maybe in a different world. If he had full control over the AI, they’d make a pretty damn awesome team. He keeps his thoughts to himself although, he’s pretty sure his digital counterpart must have at the very least considered a similar idea.

“So what now?” Jack decides to ask after the silence turns from companionable to awkward.

“Just waiting for the loaders to restart, little shit forced a station wide reboot. Then I can start mopping up this mess, the dweebs in accounting are as good as gone. Go figures they’d be the first to start dropping like flies”

“Huh, neat. For an Atlas bot that is.”

* * *

In the following days, Jack occupies his free time with, mostly, healing and examining the changes happening to his body. He spends countless of hours tracing the faded designs etched into his skin. Compared to those he has seen on Angel and other sirens, his are definitely less organic. In some places resembling choppy circuit boards, sometimes interlocking gears or cogs. Perhaps, he theorizes, they are a manifestation of their bearer’s mind and experience, appearing more natural and flowing with what a child’s unadulterated imagination could conjure as they were forming. In his case, something that has solidified only in his adulthood, they must have been influenced by his own perception and, perhaps, fancies as he definitely finds them quite appealing, sans their nature. Thanks to the damned collar, he cannot call forth the powers residing in him, but by now, he has figured out the shots of pain lacing through his back previously must have been his own variation of a siren’s wings and the curiosity is nearly killing him. Just as he’s fascinated by the brief flashes of the two waring programs he got. Certainly something worth inspecting further although, the little experiment he comes up with a day later is interrupted when his peace is disturbed again.

Turns out it’s a pair of loaders, there to pick him up, each of them clasping their vice like grips around his forearms and then dragging him along. Jack’s perfectly capable of walking around on his own thank you very much, just maybe not exactly at the speed the bots force him to, feet tangling and leaving him occasionally slumped in their grasps. 

He spares a single look towards the now empty station. As annoying as she was, Gortys at the very least was some kind of company and a metaphorical rubber duck he could bounce his ideas off of. Or at the very least go to town egging her on.

His old office, that’s where they are going today, a private lift taking them up the countless levels of Helios, the cold realization that he no longer remembers how many of them there are feeling like a punch to the guts. There is a lot of things Jack can’t recall these days but he tries to keep his sanity by listing out loud things he still can remember. Things that aren’t here and now even though he eventually always ends up rounding up his count with a list of things he’s going to do to the AI and Rhys once he’s back in charge.

Once he’s inside, the bots unceremoniously toss him in and onto his knees, Jack slowly blinking and turning his head around until he can locate his perpetrators. There they are, Rhys is standing in the shadows, just by the edge of the large window overlooking Elpis and the spiteful, thrice cursed AI sat by Jack’s desk, feet kicked on top of it. 

“Ah there you are, see me and Rhysie here, we’ve been having a little bit of a party going on here,” in response to the voice seemingly streaming from everywhere around them, Rhys half turns towards Jack and tips a glass with amber liquid in it towards him, “so I was thinking to myself, why not invite my favourite pet project over, eh? After all, we’re celebrating my very existence, so how could we have a party like that without the person directly responsible for it!” The AI keeps chattering, his voice grating on Jack’s nerves and the whole ego stroking wank is nearly making his stomach turn as he carefully approaches the desk. A few discreet glances confirm that Gortys isn’t anywhere in the vicinity, Jack as relieved as he is disappointed. Her last words left him with some hope that perhaps there was someone out there he could use, bargain with, and with the bot as his hostage, perhaps that would be his way out. She mentioned Athena and he doesn’t doubt that the woman would be less than pleased to find him alive and, maybe not well but ‘alive’ still has to count for something. And that other person? Van? Or was it something else, Jack can’t currently recall, perhaps a secret asset.

But, back to the here and now, Jack’s eyes scaling the two clowns responsible for running Hyperion right now as he tries to gauge their mood. The AI is crazy and murderous on a good day but it’s easy to tell when it’s about to indulge into yet sadistic outburst. You just gotta expect it at all times. Rhys, with Rhys however, Jack’s never quite sure what will set him off this time, mostly docile or too scared to act out around the AI - he has his moments of cold cruelty whenever he thinks he can get away with it. Jack can’t decide which one of them he hates more.

So far so good, he hasn’t been shocked, the AI smiling at him generously and occasionally glitching in what probably passes for excitement. That doesn’t bode well for Jack’s well being usually, as there were very few, if any, things that could get his holographic counterpart excited that didn’t involve tortures. He’s quick to learn what has the AI so perky this time, eyes finally landing on a barely started bottle of whiskey Rhys is currently making a grab for. Jack’s ears nearly ring with pure outrage, a surge of coiling anger burning the back of his throat before its subdued by the collar, “don’t touch it you shitface, that’s not yours to drink!” 

He tries to snatch the bottle from Rhys grasp, and fails, only to hear the AI burst into a round of laughter, “would you look at that Rhysie-boy, looks like the dog wants some scraps from the master’s table, why don’t you pour one for him as well!”

That’s not right, he needs them to leave that bottle immediately, right now, he can’t let them defile yet another thing so precious in Jack’s life. 

Appleback Whiskey, Jack can’t remember the vintage but it’s something around late 2000s, and one of the last gifts he got from Nisha. He was saving it for a special occasion and now he gets to watch that cybernetic idiot carelessly sip on it like he deserved it. Like he has earned it.

Jack’s so mad he almost misses the somewhat lost look on Rhys’ face as he hesitantly looks around in search of another glass. Both of their gazes snap to the bottle a second later, a soft chime as the metal fingers wrap tighter around it and then Rhys, or judging by his surprised expression, the AI, tips the bottle pouring out its content on the floor right in front of Jack’s feet, “atta boy, knock yourself out,” the voice sounds entirely too pleased with himself. 

Even before the situation fully registers with him, Jack’s already on the move, launching himself at the only tangible representation of the hologram, the collision knocking the bottle from Rhys’ grasp and they watch it drop to the floor and shatter almost in slow motion. 

“I was drinking that,” Rhys sounds inconsolable, a light shove of the arm wedged in between him and Jack given to separate them and he seems upset enough that he doesn’t even think of getting back at Jack for the attack. 

“D’aww, what a shame,” the AI has only now started recovering from his giggling fit, “I’d love to watch both of you lap at the floor now, come on, do it!” his voice is almost a drawl, “I’ll give you a dollar if you do that!” He sounds amused but clearly not enough interested in the idea to actually force them to do it, most likely just thrilled by keeping them guessing whether he’ll take it that far of not. “No? No volunteers? Man you two are such killjoys, well, too bad, the party has ended, but don’tcha worry, I’ll keep this idea for later. Now jokes aside and for the real reason i called you here Johnny,” with a brief flash the AI is gone before he rematerialized by Rhys’ desk, “there’s a cocktail of a completely different nature waiting for you...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope that AI Jack scuttling about in Gortys' body made you think of Deadpool stumbling around on his baby legs because that sure is what was going through my head when i was writing it. so many people pitched in with ideas (or rather, suffered through me rambling about it) thank you so much for your patience, this is also your success /finger guns/  
> the next chapter is nearly ready, im planning on getting it up around eee weekend, stay tuned


	5. conditions of singularity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> who lives by the lies, shall die by the lies and not an ounce of truth will promise salvation

There are vials and a small syringe scattered across the desk, a light prod to his side prompting him to get going as Rhys himself makes his way to his workstation with a sigh, “for the record, I think it’s a terrible idea, I hate needles, I hate doing it and I don’t want to be here.” He’s grumbling but his voice is meek and uncertain, the man ready to go back on his words the second it becomes obvious the AI won’t tolerate it.

Which clearly it seems to be object to, “awwe, kitten, thank you for your opinion!” it drawls in that annoying pitch Jack used to keep reserved for when he felt particularly happy about annoying his enemies, “of course it matters,” it continues, “just, you know Rhysie, not to me.” The winking face is nearly audible, making Jack roll his eyes.

Jack stubbornly refuses to get any closer, one last forlorn look spared towards the spilled whiskey before he gets himself electrocuted and eventually just slumps down in Rhys’ chair. He gets another shock because apparently he’s not even allowed to sit in a frickin’ chair, and when Jack comes back to it he finds himself curled on the floor with Rhys now comfortably sat and leaning over him, “come one John, you knew this would happen, let me…” a steady but gentle hand helps him sit up, muscles tired and aching refusing to hold Jack standing any time soon. In the meantime, the AI gets distracted with whatever it’s up to these days and eventually disappears into the Helios’ systems, not before warning them to ‘play nice while daddy’s away’, and Jack nearly gags at the term.

From his degrading position, Jack watches Rhys snap a pair of latex gloves on, try to roll his sleeves up, change his mind, shuffle awkwardly around and eventually look back at him miserably. It’s not like either of them can say no to the AI anyway. However, as much as Jack doesn’t want to acknowledge it, something inside of him gets a tiny bit excited about what’s about to happen. There is considerably less eridium waiting for him, probably just to top him up, and between the power high that came with it and Rhys not acting like a complete and utter asshole about it, Jack warms up to the idea a little bit. No, that’s not right, he still hates it, sees the necessity but despises the terms dictated here, eventually just gracing the other man with the most spiteful glare he can manage to cover up his uncertainty.

Despite his lack of enthusiasm, Rhys picks up his tools, fills the syringe with the thick purple liquid and runs a soaked swab of cotton over Jack’s arm. One he doesn’t surrender willingly but a weak struggle later his wrist is locked between the boney angles of Rhys’ knees, Jack slumping down and opting for staring holes into the material of his sweatpants. Rhys starts with one of the largest designs, carefully depressing the plunger, eridium - nearly oily in its texture and burning, pushes at Jack’s skin from the inside out, once again pooling into thick lumps. Until careful fingers rub over them, easing the liquid deeper into the flesh and moving it to the very edges of empty spaces.

After that, it’s a repeat of sting, burn, the uncomfortable feeling of being filled up in places you shouldn’t be filled up and then the blessed press helping it settle. Errant specks of blood get wiped with cool, damp cotton, the whole process setting up a steady rhythm of contradicting sensations that subsequently keep him on his toes every time the tightness in his chest subsides.

Jack’s mind blanks out, lulled into this half numb half absent state where he lets Rhys manipulate him about, that is, until he moves to the thinner skin on the underside of his arm and forearm, the sensations more intense there. Back then, when it was bots handling the process there was little more than pure efficiency but Rhys is only human, hesitating occasionally, going in too deep or too shallow so focused that he barely pays attention to anything else. Jack wishes he could do the same because once they are done with his arm, he’s pulled out of his distant mood and brought closer to the reality of here and now. Rhys’ unwavering focus turns out to be a good thing because Jack’s having a hard time keeping his reactions contained, both fist curled tightly, body at the verge of shaking and a distressed noise or maybe a whine scratching up the back of his throat. Neither of them reacts to the pitiful sound that breaks the silence. Despite the invasive nature of the procedure, it’s a lot more bearable this time around, be it due to a smaller amount of the corrosive element or his body having adjusted, Jack doesn’t know, doesn’t care either. One thing he _knows_ is that it absolutely isn’t because of the comforting presence of another human being, and he hates himself for even considering it.

He sits up straighter when Rhys starts working on the top of his shoulder but soon the cyborg refuses to lean down any further, urging him to stand up. Still not feeling all of his strength has returned, Jack discreetly perches himself at the very edge of the desk, metal biting into his backside and that’s what he tries to concentrate on, eyes fixed on the wall rather than the man sat right before him. The still shadows against the distant wall are infinitely more fascinating than those gathered in the hollows of Rhys’ cheeks or the warm breath across his skin when more detailed elements require closer inspection. The still shadows quickly lose their definition, an almost pleasant buzz numbing something that’s always on guard sat in his hindbrain, as his surroundings fall out of any reasonable proportions. A smudge of dark moves in the corner of his eyes, and Jack briefly wonders if Rhys’ hair would feel less aggravating against the shape of his palms than the rough material of the sweatpants or the hem of the dress shirt occasionally brushing over his hip. It would feel so much better gripped in his fist, Jack concludes almost as an afterthought, fingers gripping tighter onto the edge of the desk.

He hates the silence, now that he potentially has someone to ramble at and so, after sucking in a breath rattling in his lungs, Jack decides to address the elephant in the room, “why you? Can’t that shit stain afford someone who does that for a living?”

Rhys briefly flashes him a glance but other than that, keeps his eyes lowered and only answers with a grunt.

Which only serves to get on his nerves, Jack growing bolder with the absence of his less corporeal counterpart and the fairly docile behaviour of the other man. Bold enough that he demands attention with a light clip around Rhys’ ear, making the man jerk back with a snarl before his features are schooled back into something closer to neutral, “I’m talking to you dipstick.”

“Go to hell,” a cybernetic hand absently swings to chase away his poking.

“We’re already here,” Jack shrugs in response to the insult and he doesn’t know it yet, hasn’t just realized it, but the plurality tightens Rhys’ fingers around the syringe and makes him grind his teeth harder. He will discover it soon enough.

“Jack doesn’t like strangers touching his things,” Rhys is still avoiding his eyes, even as he looks up, but his gaze is focused more on the scar than Jack, “and I’m ‘harmless’, can’t really oppose him,” the air quotes are near audible, and it’s clear that while the man doesn’t agree with it, he has resigned himself to it regardless. Perhaps a survival tactic. Regardless, it stirrs another idea to lazily float about in his head. It’s a four stage plan, 1 - get back in charge, 2 - sort himself out, 3 - mess with the AI’s belonging, 4 - Make.That.Fucker.Suffer. With little regard for the order. For now however, he just needs something to tide him over, to sate either of the visceral feelings coiled in him. An excuse, one he doesn’t want to acknowledge and he’s not really in the habit of making excuses for himself, but he isn’t in the habit of being this starved, exhausted shell of his former self either.

“Harmless? Not really the impression I got from every single fucking time you tried to deep fry me, bet there’s some rebellious thoughts bouncing about in that empty head of yours, huh?” Jack stresses his point with a finger tapping south of the echo port at Rhys’ temple, the man instantly freezing in his spot. He takes a longer while examining the face in front of him, his turn for swatting away the hands no longer working on his markings

“There are none,” Rhys’ voice is completely impassive, a trained response and yet, he still hunches his shoulder a bit more, subconsciously expecting a strike to come.

“Nah, lies, wouldn’t you give up your everything for some revenge?” in his current position, Jack can’t do much but try to nurture all the animosities between his enemies, and if that could potentially land him an ally, all the better. Once again Rhys replies with only a grunt, uncomfortable and on edge but seemingly bearing no ill will towards Jack. Not right in this moment anyway. “I’m gonna take that for a ‘hell yeah’, shh, no, you don’t gotta say that out loud. Come on.”

Rhys finally lifts his eyes, a smidge of hope against all hope tucked somewhere in the warmth of his organic iris, air, caught in between a near sob and an unspoken plea expanding his chest. Jack thinks making it the man’s last dying breath would be mercy in their current situation. He’s so much worse of left alive.

“If…” the words hesitate, getting caught around the vowels and long forgotten worship, “if he’s gone, there’s absolutely nothing left for me…” To Jack’s disappointment, Rhys’ eyes are still free of tears, his scattered mind briefly considering gouging them. Maybe just the blue one, the colour always looked better on him anyway. Still, there’s enough dread for having even spoken out loud about such an option in Rhys’ voice, he settles down a little bit. Would have settled down if the feeling was directed at him not the AI. He wants back everything the goddamned glitch took away from him.

“I-” Jack’s tired hand skims over the soft curl of the other man’s chin, on it’s way up to his own chest where it sits, fingers splayed over his overexcited heart, “I’m excellent at being people’s everything.”

It gets him a bitter, humourless chuckle, “him, you, there is no difference, it’d still be living under Handsome Jack’s thumb. You got a taste of this particular medicine, you know what I’m talking about. At least him...he can’t hurt me anymore than he already did.”

Jack’s heartbeat feels like a headache behind his ears, cracked lips parted as he bows a fraction lower, both hands this time drifting to take Rhys’ face into a steady grip, boney outline of his jaw sat snugly in the curl of Jack’s palms, “sweetheart, that’s cause he doesn’t have the means to do it right.” He speaks, lovingly, of violence, vast and consuming and maybe, just maybe something entirely different to go with it. Jack’s not sure if he’s doing it to sate his own hunger for physical contact or to fan the desire in his victim, regardless, it all hits him like a punch to the guts, hard, heavy and sliding lower, a feeling mostly neglected these days. Not out of his own choice but between the starvation, withdrawal syndromes and ever new and creative tortures the AI comes up with, there’s little time left for getting in touch with your more carnal side.

He doesn’t get to indulge anymore, thoughts scattering in every direction again as Rhys clears his throat and awkwardly pulls away, avoiding Jack’s eyes as much as he can and tucking away these few private second they shared under professionalism.

Having nudged aside the fabric of Jack’s sweatpants, Rhys has by now moved to the top of his hip, head bowed and to Jack’s disappointment, moves more jerky and careless, barely a few passes given before he deems the eridium spread evenly. What previously was measured injections turn nearly to stabs, Rhys either exasperate or antsy. Both most likely. Jack thinks that getting closer to his dick is not an excuse for getting sloppy, his right hand inching closer to the working man, to maybe smack him and remind him of how important his job is.

The conversation however, has left the atmosphere charged and Jack doesn’t realize it for a longer while, but his breathing has picked up, heart beating fast and heavy, almost as if trying to get closer to the drug or to the hands carelessly forcing it under his skin. Not wanting to think too hard about it, lest he arrives at an uncomfortable conclusion, his eyes move to scan over the office till the reflection catches his attention. Distorted and skewed, two figures curled around the reflective surface of a glass display, it almost looks like something else. Like if he squinted his eyes just the right way his brain could tint the image something more out of an adult magazine, with him dictating the terms and conditions, back in power and with someone bowed before him. Something’s twisting in his guts, the old Jack wouldn’t surely let an opportunity like that to crack a lewd joke slide but the here and now Jack is vulnerable and tired. There’s no shielding himself from the onslaught of thoughts and hopes coming from within, heat sparking up inside and, even if only for a few fleeting moments, he doesn’t feel the constant chill leaving his skin numb, nerves alite and alive, eagerly responding to the touch. He wants it gone from his head but melts and bends to his cravings when Rhys steadies him with a palm against the curve of his hip. Jack shakes his head, shakes the idea of pliant lips and tongues out of his mind, not that it isn’t enticing but rather, because it instantly becomes tainted with teary, brown and blue eyes and teeth biting into his flesh.

Rhys has originally caught the movement of his hand, now stuck mid air as the man gives him a long stare. Two sets of mismatched eyes, capturing and captivating, and neither of them can break free from it simultaneously both the prey and the predator.

That is, until the apex beast shows up in a flash of blue, a cheshire grin briefly obscuring Jack’s vision as it clips through its flesh and bone ride, “would you look at you two stupid meatbags, I can’t decide which one is more hilarious,” the AI trails off only to burst into a mean laughter before his expression turns more serious, “that’s what gets your rocks off? Really? Damn that’s a new level of desperation even for a bitch like you! A little bit of pain and some human contact and you’re ready to roll over!”

It’s clear to him that the AI is making fun of him but to their surprise it’s Rhys who dips his head lower, shoulders hunched, which thankfully draws the attention away from Jack.

“Oh, precious, I didn’t even get to you yet!” the AI seems to be having a field day making this situation worse, and although he probably can’t see it, Jack can feel that the repetitive stab-burn is gone and that Rhys is stuck unable to progress, absently rubbing the same spot over and over again. Looks like his brain is completely fried and from where Jack’s standing, he can see the deep red of the tips of his ears.

“Shut up and go away,” he snaps at the AI, “you’re making it harder than it needs to be, just let it be over as soon as possible.”

“Oh I bet I am,” the hologram nearly doubles in half, spiraling into another fit of giggles, “you don’t know it yet Johnny but there is some really nasty shit in that pretty head of his, no joking.” The sudden drop in the pitch of the AI’s voice gives the impression that he’s about to share a secret, Rhys completely freezing in his spot, “you don’t know it yet but I bet Rhysie is just dying to tell you all about his little fantasies.” well, now he wants a medal for having figured it out beforehand on his own, “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I mostly consider not having a meatbag a certain type of freedom but at the same time, there is only so much I can do with only one body between the two of us!” Jack blinks, seriously considering whether the AI is implying what he think he was, “no need to be shy pumpkin, come on no hiding!”

The man so far trying to huddle down and possibly make himself small enough to just disappear, shakes, some internal conflict going on before he’s made to look up with a violent jerk coming from within. Just as Jack suspected, there’s a persistent blush stuck to the hollows of his cheeks and a pathetic look on his face as he tries to avert his eyes.

“Problem is,” the AI keeps talking, all the while apparently making Rhys stand up, the two of them suddenly too close for Jack’s comfort, so he shows his teeth in a snarl and tries to lean back, tries to convince himself that’s what he should do. “...problem is, sometimes it’s hard to tell which of those nasty fucked up things, he wants me to do to him, and which ones he wants to do to you.” From this close Jack can see how hard Rhys is grinding his teeth even as his hand moves to rest on Jack’s chest, slowly sliding up and to the base of his throat to press into the little hollow space there. He chokes and he swears that despite the clear conflict going on inside of the other man, his eyes look like they are about to roll back, both of them breathing hard. The hand wrapping around Jack’s throat should have his alarm bells going off like crazy but truth be told, they’ve been going on non stop since he woke up to this hellish nightmare, and as such the only thing that registers with his wracked up brain is the warmth and an oddly comforting weight.

This is the very first time Rhys has made a move to touch him without any prompting or real necessity even though the AI keeps goading him into tightening his grip. He does that, briefly, eyes lighting up just as Jack’s dim, and he can feel, intimately, too intimately how much heat the body crowding him is giving off. He would very much like to attribute this to the constant lack of anything friendlier than his impassive, metal surroundings, a, yet another, addiction these two make him tilt into but then again, those little flashes of awe he sometimes gets from Rhys...they are a different type of drug, something left behind from his life before. The hands, gentle in their nature but rough in the practice - only getting used to the violence, are more of an idea in his brain, whenever they’re not on him, and a scorching presence whenever Rhys breaches the chill permanently clinging to his skin. Whether on him or not, Jack can’t get them out of his mind, too weak and exhausted to slap a ‘stockholm syndrome’ label on it and pocket the feelings away for later.

As much as he’s expecting a shock to spark from the collar around his neck, Jack’s not willing to just take whatever violence Rhys is about to dish out, hand flying forward to shove Rhys’ face away, and when he turns it to the side, Jack grabs a fistful of his hair. Logically, now he should give a strong tug, get as much distance between the two of them as he can but there’s something heavy in his stomach, weighing him down and sowing uncertainty.

The angle however, unveils something else, Jack’s eyes focusing on a shade creeping up from under Rhys’ collar. Always immaculate, buttoned up to the point of probably finding it constricting, this little misjudgement costs Rhys the entirety of Jack’s attention. Driven by curiosity, or maybe lack of self preservation, he slides his hand lower, tugging the fabric to the side. The shadow expands into a thick, fresh bruise ringing the other man’s neck. With his free hand Jack subconsciously reaches to a mirror mark that just barely fits under the literal collar biting into his own flesh.

“Gee kiddo...”

Rhys cast his eyes towards the floor, something unspoken tilting on his lips before the AI interrupts the beginning of a mumble, half transparent arms tucked under its head as it floats closer to the two of them, “you think I did it?” The voice is tinged with amusement although it’s hard to pick up on any real venom, dipping more into a twisted version of pride, “oh, no, see, there’s only so much I can do, only some of it is my handiwork, Rhysie here, turns out, is a pretty damn quick learner if you teach him what he likes, eh, kiddo?”

Which leaves Jack wondering how far the marks reach. His fingers briefly press into the edge of the bruise, Rhys barely suppressing a shudder, “and here I was wondering what got you to sing so pretty last night…”

It’s like his words were a slap, the man’s head jerking back, eyes wide and wild, composure momentarily broken before he pulls it back over himself like a safety blanket. He’s back to avoiding the double gaze to the best of his abilities, “didn’t know you were listening…”

“You can thank me for that later,” the AI certainly isn’t oblivious to the shift in the air, a different flavour of shame tinting the situation as Rhys swallows heavily, the front of his throat fluttering into Jack’s touch and the man looks like he’d rather be anywhere else but here. Not that Jack can blame him but right now, he doesn’t half mind the residual burn under his skin, finally feeling the playing field leveling out. If only by a degree or so.

So he drops the tone of his voice an octave lower, turns it into a reverent whisper, little hope spared that his words would escape the AI’s attention, “you liked that, didn’t ya? That I’ve heard every little whine you made, huh? Every pitiful cry he has made you wrench out of yourself,” because Jack doesn’t delude himself as to the AI’s involvement. Whatever it had to say for itself, some things take two to tango and he can recognize his own particular brand of sadism when he sees it. Not in the more physical manifestation of the violence but rather the flow and ebb of Rhys’ apparent masochism. “Bet’cha you’d get off on that if you could…” Rhys is sucking in clipped, shallow breaths, a deer caught in the headlight, unable to pull back, same way he would occasionally get when Jack got too close. He’s not sure if the thunder in his ears is his or Rhys’ heart but chooses to blame the other man for it, lips a cruel crescent and muscles nearly cramping around the scar pulling at his skin. “Oh I know you would, sometimes it just isn’t enough, right? Sometimes… you are just too weak for that…” Jack carefully gauges the reactions he can force out of the other man, eyes half lidded and even to his own ears, his voice sounds like tar, cloying and sealing the oxygen away, “...weak on your own, kitten, unable to take it far enough, but what if the help was more than just a noise inside your head?”

He lets the idea settle in that idiot’s bird brain, and Jack must be hitting the nail right on the head because Rhys’ lips part, just as he fully fits his hand against the slim, pale throat. Deliciously breakable, he notes with just enough care to maybe revisit it later. Whether it’s intended as a protest or agreement, all that slips out is a shuddering breath, caught for a split second against Jack’s palm and tapering off into a pathetic moan.

That’s not enough and too much at the same time, his patience running out, as is his willingness to keep the act up, too thrilled by the sudden upper hand to keep himself in check. Jack lets go, shoving the other man away, as far as his limited strength will let him, which, in reality isn’t all that far unfortunately, as he breaks into a fit of hysterical laughter. “Oh fuck…” it’s unstoppable, shaking him to the core, and in a way, cleansing, lifting some of the constant anxiety, “if you could see yourself right now…friggin hilarious. Damn, woah, gotta say i knew you’re right fucked up and hey, at least you are committed to it! Got the guy wondering what’s your damage though.”

It’s a lesson, one Jack will need to be taught a solid couple more times before he will be ready to sit down and re examine his actions, that you can poke a cornered rat only so many times before it bites back. He’s much better at teaching that lesson though. The near bashful gaze turns to steel and then trips straight into completely unhinged, Rhys stumbling back and shaking his head like a wet dog. He bares his teeth and Jack mirrors the expression.

“You want to know what my fucking damage is? Take a goddamned…” the man finally snaps and, to Jack’s surprise, starts fiddling with the layers of his clothing, clammy hands struggling with the uncooperative rows of buttons, “...look for yourself!”

He hesitantly chances a glance at the suspiciously quiet AI but the translucent spectre seems more than happy to just sprawl itself mid air, watching the two rats it has pitched against one another struggle. Same disgusted fascination one would express towards watching two hostile spiderants dropped into a container, fighting for survival.

“Fucking look at me Jack!” His head swerves back to the source of the ear piercing scream and there’s a displeased hiss coming from the AI. Rhys disregards it, done with his shirt and waving the blue shimmer away, “look what you’ve done!”

So he does, taking in the mix of purplish green spreading down the man’s front and the gruesome scars, the most prominent one stretching down his center and parting into two separate directions along his collarbones. Jack’s not sure how it’s his fault Rhys looks like he has found himself on the wrong end of an autopsy but he’ll gladly take the blame if that means pushing the man further, “yikes, cupcake, had a bad run in with a scalpel I see.”

“Yikes?!” Rhys’ eyes bulge in outrage, his cybernetic fingers sneaking up his chest to tenderly prod at the intersection of the scar, seemingly without the man’s conscious decision, “that’s all you have to say? Have you got any idea what it feels to have all your insides pulled out?” Jack winces, not in sympathy, simply because he’s quite sure he’s not exactly capable of that particular emotion, but with some kind of understanding, having been left at the AI’s mercy one too many times, “Unable to pass out because your own screams wake you up, watching your beating heart handled about by the loaders while this. Fucking. Thing. Just won’t let you die?” As absolutely lovely as the image Rhys paints is, the mention of the ‘thing’ makes his ears perk. “Hope you are proud of yourself because every single bone in my body has been broken and resettled with that atrocious creation of yours grafted into them…”

Jack’s confusion must be clear as a day because Rhys storms off to the corner of the room, an unimposing coat rack just standing there innocently and supporting a spare shirt and a coat. Rhys tugs them, nearly making it fall over and Jack’s eyes widen once he realizes the true nature of the furniture. His old exoskeleton, fitted with what appears to be a long decommissioned loader bot’s head, barren of the outer golden layer and cybernetics originally laced into it. Listless and lifeless, just as the bot’s head crowning the whole installation.

“Ah, looks to me like you’ve started putting one and one together Johnny boy,” his digital counterpart saunters closer, overly pleased smirk pulling at its lips to uncover more teeth than it should be possible, “your old immortality suit, quite the fancy toy, huh? Couldn’t quite believe Rhysie pulled through the surgery, talk about luck.”

Rhys snarls in response, “luck has nothing to do with it you psychopa…” the rest of his tirade dies out in a whine, the man curling in on himself as the whiplash of the AI’s anger courses through him, invisible and intangible to a naked eye but Jack might have a pretty good idea how it must feel on the inside. Blood turned to fire and non existent fingers fisted into Rhys’ guts, or maybe his naked nerves scalded with ice, doesn’t matter, with this amount of cybernetics, the AI can make him feel and do any and everything, imaginary or not. As much of a curse as it is a blessing, Rhys could probably stay operational -if a bit scatterbrained- even if decapitated, for at least some time.

Of course he has dreamed of seeing this little pet project through, but last time he has checked on it, the procedure would be fatal. Not to mention extremely invasive. But to see it come to quite a successful fruition? Oh it was like a balm for his wrecked nerves.

Rhys needs a few moments to catch his breath once the AI is done with him, Jack absently rubbing some of the injection sites to ease the sting, even though the eridium has already settled into a constant, pulsing burn somewhere at the back of his mind. Mostly he’s just busy trying to avoid the ire of the malicious AI as he keeps mulling over the new development of his fucked up situation. He doesn’t escape Rhys’ though, the man finally refocusing back on him, unable to take out his pain and anger on his true perpetrator, he comes after Jack, a hand, burning hot and damp with sweat landing against the back of his neck.

Jack finds himself seconds later with his face uncomfortable ground into the floor, on his knees and with hands curled into fists.

“You have no idea what I’ve been through…” hissed right into ear, “but I’ll make sure you feel all of that, tenfolds, and trust me, he, Jack, he’ll let me do that, even reward it…” Rhys is too close, too much, too loud and too angry, Jack nearly boiling on the inside, from anxiety and his own anger but this time, he turns it into a different feeling and lets it spill over. High pitched at first, he bursts into a giggle and then a full blown laughter. Nearly scares himself with how utterly maniacal it sounds but he has long given up on making heads and tails of what makes or breaks him anyway.

The grip relents and Rhys slumps onto the ground beside him, fingers combing through his ruffled up hair and eyeing Jack warily, “what’s so funny? If you have completely lost it, it won’t be any fun to watch you squirm later.”

“Oh Rhysie,” Jack singsongs, sitting up and rolling his shoulder blades before he scuttles closer to the sitting man. Despite the pain and hatred, something else shines through, a certain kind of fondness tinting his words, “you are…” he rests his palm over the man’s thrashing heart, wishes he could tear it out but for now, satisfies himself with the way Rhys’ skin breaks into goosebumps, “...absolutely perfect.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel like the more i fiddle with this chapter the more chaotic it becomes so uh, better luck next time i wont write out of chronological order ever again


End file.
